awhirl

Here is another contribution from guest splatter sass:


awhirl

i'm staring at the ceiling again

mind reeling

thoughts rushing ceaselessly

fish-tailing

flipping

flitting

fleeing half-formed

and fleeting

my mind reaches to grasp

though there's but air

mere wisps of smoke

swirling

disappearing into whorls of nothing

just an observation

Here is a contribution from another guest splatter, this time it is sass from my whorl. She is quite a prolific poet and often publishes her writing on her blog. Go check it out!


life goes on...

the trash truck does it's rounds,

tow trucks wait

on the edge of the highway -

lions at a watering hole.

motorists carve curious trails,

carom precariously,

swim drunken laps through a sea of

careless cars.

today's headlines line the lampposts

like so many doomsday prophets.

there's so much truth,

so many lies.

i retreat behind the bars

of my eyes...

and life goes on...

The violence of the colonised soul

Much has been written about the psychological and spiritual violence suffered by the colonised native. I agree wholeheartedly with this but I would like to add all citizens of colonised countries to this list, not only the natives of a country.

This is not to detract from the suffering of the indigenous peoples. That they have had foreign cultures thrust upon them and have suffered as a result is unquestionable. They had no choice but to adopt the new culture and weld and meld it with their own as best they could. They became hybrids in order to survive.

My ancestors came to South Africa at various times. They were white, they chose to come to a new country, but to ignore as much as possible the local ways and culture. They chose to follow only their own ways, and to force those ways upon the locals.

There is nothing I can do about this. I am sorry it happened. But us descendants of the colonisers we are hybrids too. We find ourselves citizens of a country that does not much want us any more. We are told we are Europeans. We go to Europe and they tell us there is no way we are European. We were born on African soil and taught to love that soil with all our hearts, but we are not allowed to be called African.

I believe that all citizens of a colonised country suffer from hybridity, psychological violence, dividedness, a confused sense of self, a crisis of identity.

Will an Indian South African ever be "South African", even if they are 6th generation South African? Or will they always be "Indian South African"? Will a coloured person, the most glaring example of hybridity, ever be allowed to forge an identity that is neither white nor black, but South African? Does a "South African" identity exist at all? Black people have had western ways and ideals thrust upon them, and must choose to adopt them and be called a "coconut", or reject them and battle to fit into a Westernised job market, or weld them into a new hybrid form.

We are all hybrids, and we can fight this or we can embrace it. It makes us who we are, it challenges us. We will always suffer this confusion, this sensation of not quite belonging to anything, but it need not damage us. We should allow it to drive us forward, and while it may never unite us into a common South African identity, we can remember that we all suffer from this fate of existential confusion, whatever our roots.

American sentence

There must be a better way

Communism is Capitalism disguised: we want all your stuff.

Es'kia Mphahlele has died.

I have just read that Es'kia Mphahlele has died. I wrote this post in appreciation of his writing, and his life, just a month ago. I am kind of in shock. 

He was a great man, a great South African, someone whom I feel was under appreciated as a South African icon.

He achieved unbelievable things in extremely difficult circumstances, and should be a role model to all of us.

I have never read any of his novels, but will take the time to as soon as possible.

If you get the chance, you should read his autobiography, it will teach you much about South Africa, and life in those times.

Rest in peace, Prof. Mphahlele.

Bewaaaare the jumping buck

This haiku was inspired by this Thoughtleader article.

Beware: Jumping Buck.

It will give you bad luck, and

cause crate-loads of kak.

Little llama

Another animal haiku from crazy guest splatter Foo:

He gazes at me

his eyes so deep and soulful

oh little llama

people on the streets

This is an extract from a short story I wrote, so it is not really poetry at all. It is a paragraph about people on the streets in Cape Town. Most of the people described are based on truth. 

There was the proud lady who asked only for water,

 the wizened man with the startling beard,

 the child who carried a letter telling of her troubles,

 the young schizophrenic who swayed on one leg for hours and then burst into a heated tirade, 

the man with the recorder, 

the one with the club foot,

 the wire flower seller, 

the card seller, 

the bead seller, 

 the sweeper,

 the leaf-raker, 

the candlestick maker, 

the one who helped you park your car,

 the one who guarded your parked car, 

the ones who cleaned your car windows while you stopped at the robots.

Train

Another haiku from the guest splatter Foo.

The sound of swishing

train comes to a flying halt

ooh that scary leaf

Feeling blue.

Here is a poem from guest splatter, Foo.

He sits in lonely torment.

the sun no longer reigns in the sky

an outcast, a stranger

they reject the unfamiliar

for he...

is the only gay smurf in the village

monkey see

Today's splat is another haiku by guest splatter Foo.

Monkey grab monkey

see no feel no banana

sometimes it's disguised

mischievous moose

A moose on the loose

ran into my garden and

terrified the goose.

Lemmings

Another guest splatter, yay! Today's guest splatter is called Foo and she has written a haiku:

Lemming one drop down

lemming two land on lemming

lemming three go squish

Grey day.

Grey is the morning.

I have no fire left in me

to light the grey day.

(haiku)

Prayer

A bird is warm and free

to sing or eat a worm

and fly, fly.

I have a stone 

deep in my bowels,

smooth like an egg

but cold.

It will not dislodge

it bears me down

and slowly, slowly,

I petrify.

Fissures forge fine imprints

of  feathered history,

and I grow hard, leached dry,

a fossil on a museum shelf-

beyond reach.

When I die I wish my soul to 

fly.

Whirlwind

This is the way the whirlwind turns;

Without a thought for where you stood

and watched the birds on the wall

or fought with your lover

just five seconds before.

It can take you away 

as if you were nothing more than dust

and dump you where

you do not know yourself at all.

The passing penguin

Today's splat is written by a guest splatter, G. He wrote it while in Antarctica for 15 months at the South African base.

The Passing Penguin

Swishing, and swashing and swimming about

Swish swash and hop just out

Flipping and flopping and looking about

Flip flop and have no doubt

Mmm

On to tummy, better get out!

American sentence

I had never heard of the American sentence until I read Poefrika, which directed me here. I am not sure if I understand the concept fully, but the 17 syllable aspect is easy enough to achieve:

It is so quiet now that loneliness sees through all my disguises.

Seasons of home:

               Spring

 The mountain glows gold

with the smoky promise of

      a blossoming fire.

Seasons of home:

              Summer

      The sun melts fallen

ice-cream into clouds of blurred

     abandoned rainbows.

Seasons of home:

           Autumn

  Time to clear the grime

and put to sleep an era’s

    faded pantomime.

Seasons of home:

             

                Winter

     Mid-phrase a bullet

snaps him from the bitter air

  to the dead, cold ground.

Thank you Eskom

Yesterday

Your razor eyes peeled back

my carrot skin disguise

Exposing things long tucked away

By mouldy familiarity.

And I, cold and raw, x-rayed you

And I too saw.

We tiptoed a fine-spun thread,

teetering on edges of ugliness,

Eyeing depths that offer no return

that plunge to parallel dimensions

without intersection.

I stiffened, poised to leap

into the icy winds of love’s defection,

into the slipstream of the left-unsaid,

but then the lights winked out

and we

well we did something else instead.

Sent to Coventry

Coventry, oh Coventry

Your name does strange things to me

with its round-vowelled lilting beauty

It brings to mind scones and tea

and Morris dancing and all that is Englishy

(and a naked woman on a horse but this poem is not meant to be kinky)

Your name is silky, Coventry.

Coventry, you lie to me

When I visit you all that I see

are concrete blocks and faded humanity

Your bus station is full of knives, needles and debauchery

and the people are always bothering me,

what IS that metal bridge monstrosity?

Your name should be Slough or Wrexham, Coventry

TV removal men

I know that "men in the night" sound
and I know the fear, the heart in the mouth,
the hand on the phone, whispering my mantra
Take what you want, the TV is crap though,
you already took the good one, that one is someone's spare,
The picture is blurred and jumps around,
Just don't hurt us, we are not bad people.

Now I am over the sea,
and I think of my loved ones
and I whisper again,
please please do not hurt them
they are good people.

And ps, thank you for curing me of TV.

?

My head feels worn

with too much thought

or too little, and torn

between fear of success

and failure safely borne.

Nothingness is easier than you think-

but slipping through the cracks,

hiding from mediocrity,

is only to sink.

Little people

If you feel you are too small

for this world, like a hobbit

amongst giants towering tall

Think of faithful Sam

And Bilbo who stole a cup

from a sleeping dragon,

But not so much Frodo -

he was pretty fucked up.

Lost

I am not of this earth

I am not of this space

I am designed for another time

and place

I encapsulate longing

for a sense of belonging

for a way to fit, a way to find

home.

Thoughtbite 2

The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.

The rain in England falls daily on the rain

from yesterday.


*

Thoughtbite 1

My, the world is a bit of a screwed up place

We're all running around trying to save face

putting a shine to the tarnished human race

wehaveourheadsupourbuttsmostofthetimebutwe'reallrightreally.